


Mors Certa, Hora Incerta

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Bondage, D/s, Dominance, Gags, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is certain, its hour is uncertain, but perhaps the hour is less uncertain when Moran is entirely at Moriarty's mercy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mors Certa, Hora Incerta

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on another fic I wrote some time ago about different characters.

   Only a single thing in life is absolutely certain, and that is that one day that life will end. The point at which it will end remains uncertain and yet… it is most plausible that for Moran that point may come soon – very soon indeed.

   Moriarty could break him. His primary field of interest is mathematics and his other sphere of special talent is one that cannot be talked about in polite society, for polite society would likely not care to know that this seemingly mild-mannered academic is a criminal genius who plots global wars, manipulating the players like mere chess pieces, simply because he _can_ , with very little thought given over to the matter of whether he _should_.

   One would not think though perhaps that the human body holds much interest for him, not as it would to say a doctor or a medical student. James Moriarty however is a student of certain darker inclinations, not merely a student of life but of death also. One never knows when such facts as those pertaining to human anatomy may prove invaluable. As an amateur boxer for instance such knowledge reaped great rewards for he knew precisely where he must strike to fell even those opponents bigger and stronger than himself.

   He has seen corpses, taken apart and laid bare by anatomists, stripped down to their most basic components so that those who crave the knowledge can see what makes up a man. Moriarty has seen what men are made of, and thought it rather disappointing, really. Skin is so easily torn; bones are so easily broken. Sever an artery and a man may bleed out in a matter of minutes; perhaps even in under a minute. Men die easily, and having brought about the deaths of more than a few Moriarty certainly knows this better than many. There are so, _so_ many ways to cause that complex puzzle of bones and tissues and blood to cease working.

   He could kill Moran.

  Sebastian Moran is strong – stronger than Moriarty even when it comes to muscular strength, for the professor is not quite the young, fully fit man he once was. But when he has Moran like _this_ , wrists and ankles tightly bound to the bed, the gag strapped in his mouth and Moriarty’s thighs straddling his hips; Moriarty’s weight atop him, pinning him down, Moran is fully at his mercy.

   The colonel’s breathing and heart-rate have increased; he sweats more; his pupils are clearly dilated, making those beautiful blue eyes look absolutely dark. He is wound up with nervous tension, prepped to fight or to run but utterly unable to do either. All control over his own body has gone and for all his wiry soldier’s strength he is fragile, his skin frail as paper, his bones vulnerable as glass. Moriarty could break him in countless ways and Moran knows it. Moriarty could take Moran apart, piece by pretty piece, and Moran knows that too. When Moran looks up at him, glancing from the blade in Moriarty’s hand to meet the professor’s gaze Moriarty sees the knowledge in those deep-set eyes. In these moments not merely Moran’s heart but his hide, his brain, every inch of his flesh (and yes, even his very _soul_ , wherever within that cage of meat and bone that may reside), every part of him is in the professor’s hands, entirely subject to his caprices.

   Moriarty could eliminate Moran.

   The colonel knows enough about how the body is made to understand its vulnerabilities also. He has suffered enough injuries himself; he has seen men shot or blown to pieces in war, and of course he has killed. It is in Moran’s nature to try to rigidly discipline himself and to push himself onwards even when exhausted; even when wounded, trying to deny to himself (and often to those around him also) that he requires sleep or sustenance or that his capabilities may be lessened by injury. That his own body can hurt and bleed and fail him all too easily can be a source of great consternation to him and thus he tries always to drive on, not fearing death but simply fearing breaking down; being rendered useless and helpless and weak and ultimately now failing his professor.

   Moran craves a controlling hand but he also desires freedom from his own limitations and that is why he comes to submit to being constrained, because to have all of one’s control and power taken from oneself is liberation in itself. It is a show of great strength, not of weakness, to give oneself utterly to another, knowing full well that they could end you.

   The professor smiles at him, his smile like the knife he could so easily run across Moran’s throat, spilling out all of his lifeblood in mere seconds, and he smirks as he whispers in Moran’s ear: “ _Memento mori.”_

   And he grins more as he watches Moran come undone completely under his ministrations, tugging futilely against the ropes that bind him, losing himself entirely in _la petite mort,_ for long moments falling beyond sense, beyond reason, beyond time _._

   Coming back to himself at last, eyes hazily refocusing, as Moriarty cuts the ropes from his wrists; his mouth pulling into a slow smile as the professor removes the gag before he murmurs softly, _“James.”_

   Death is certain but not here, not now, not yet.

   Moriarty _could_ destroy him, but he won’t, and Moran knows it.


End file.
